


Home at last

by Lakritzwolf



Series: Flufftober 2018 [28]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, M/M, Of course they live happily ever after in the Shire what are you talking about I can't hear you, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: Flufftober Challenge 2018: Trope SundayFour - Established Relationship





	Home at last

The morning air is crisp and fresh as Thorin steps through the door with a basket hanging from the crook of his arm. He squints at the shopping list and nods, determined to get everything right this time. As he steps down the path dressed in nothing but boots, linen trousers, a shirt and a belted tunic, he inhales deeply, taking in the view of rolling green hills dotted with colourful round doors.

He would never have been able to imagine it, back then, upon entering the hobbit hole for the first time, that he would come back here. And not only that, but he is here to stay. A smile tugs at his lips and he rolls his shoulders as he passes the Underhill’s door. Old Underhill gives him a curt nod, and Thorin nods back. It’s practically a cheerful greeting just short of a hug for the old Hobbit, and it only heightens Thorin’s mood.

By the time he has reached the Green Dragon and the marketplace most of Hobbiton is already out and about, the Hobbits milling around the market for their daily business.

It had taken them some getting used to, having a dwarf live here. But as they with time discovered that Thorin wanted nothing more than peace, pipe weed, and the occasional ale in the Dragon, they had stopped giving him those looks reserved for outsiders.

“Good morning, Master Dwarf!” Bluebell the baker calls and Thorin nods with a smile as he approaches his booth.  
“Good Morning, Master Bluebell.” Thorin looks at the list in his hand. “Two of your famous cinnamon buns, if you please, and a loaf of white.”

The baker beams at him upon hearing the compliment and chooses the largest buns he can find. He wraps them in parchment and hands Thorin the bread, and Thorin pays with a smile.

Such a simple life. And he is so content here.

“Morning, Master Dwarf!”  
“Top of the morning to you, Mistress Smallburrow.” Thorin puts his basket onto her table. “Half a dozen large ones, please.”  
The Hobbit smiles at him as she wraps six large eggs into linen and puts them into Thorin’s basket. “How’s the husband?”  
“Fine, thank you for asking.” Thorin takes out his pouch and counts the coins into Mistress Smallburrow’s hands.  
“Haven’t seen him around yet,” she remarks and pockets the money.  
“He isn’t up yet,” Thorin says smugly. “I managed to get out of the smial and want to surprise him with breakfast.”  
“Oh!” She beams at him. “Special occasion?”

Thorin looks at his left hand, and the simple, golden ring. “It would be our fifth anniversary.”  
“OH!” Mistress Smallburrow claps her hands. “Congratulations then! I can’t believe it’s already five years!”  
“Neither do I,” Thorin replies with a smile and inclines his head. “I better be on my way then.”  
“You’d better,” she says and smiles broadly. “And remember: Slow and steady with the fire. It’s not a furnace, aye?”

Thorin chuckles and nods. He isn’t surprised that this particular incident is still on everyone’s mind, but then, black smoke coming out of Bag End’s kitchen chimney isn’t something that happens a lot.

On his way back Thorin makes one last stop and acquires a small bouquet from Miss Hornwood’s little cart: white chrysanthemums for loyalty, an aster and a hydrangea as a thank you for Bilbo’s patience with his clumsy, lumbering troll of a husband, and two roses, a red one for love, and a lavender-coloured one for love at first sight. Miss Hownwood smiles, she and almost has little hearts in her eyes as she wraps a white satin ribbon around the flower stalks.

After thanking her Thorin hurries up the hill and back home, and is delighted that he has really managed to be back before Bilbo is awake. He lays the table and gets to work.

And yes, this time he remembers to reduce the heat before he sets the pan with the eggs onto the stove. And when, somewhat later, Bilbo pads yawning into the kitchen, Thorin stands next to the table that is laid for two, with cinnamon buns, a fresh loaf of white bread, sliced and buttered, fried eggs, sunny side up, and flowers in a vase.

Bilbo _stares_.

Thorin smiles, but eventually starts fidgeting a little because Bilbo hasn’t moved an inch, and he wonders if he has done something wrong.

And just as Thorin is about to ask what he has done wrong, Bilbo inhales deeply and looks at his husband of five years with eyes that are misting over.

“You lumbering troll,” he mutters and closes the distance between them with two large steps.  
“Am I, though?” Thorin asks in a low voice as he closes his arms around Bilbo to pull him close.  
“Not today, at least,” Bilbo mumbles into Thorin’s shoulder. “Today you are just...” He nuzzles into the crook of Thorin’s neck. “You’re just... my... my dwarf.”  
“Your dwarf,” Thorin said softly with a chuckle. “Well, it is a step up from a lumbering troll.”

Bilbo tightens his hold for a moment before he leans back. He rests the palm of his hand against Thorin’s cheek and shakes his head, an incredibly fond and – although he would deny that to the end of his days – lovesick smile on his face.

Thorin returns that smile, his eyes warm, and reaches out to run his fingers through Bilbo’s hair. His fingers toy for a moment with the small braid at Bilbo’s temple, and the small beads that holds it. Thorin wears one to match it. Wedding beads.

Bilbo has asked, before their wedding, what dwarfish customs were, and Thorin had to explain that a lot of things were too complicated to relate to an outsider who was not even allowed to be privy to the language in which they were practised. The wedding beads were the one thing Bilbo had understood, though, having spent enough time with dwarves to know the significance of braids and beads. He had insisted. Thorin couldn’t have loved him any more the day he had braided that little bead into Bilbo’s curls.

“The eggs are getting cold,” Thorin says, still smiling, and Bilbo takes a deep breath.  
“Can’t have that now, can we,” Bilbo replies, almost business-like, but he takes the time to brush a kiss onto Thorin’s lips.

As Bilbo praises Thorin’s – massively improved – cooking skills, sparrows are chirping while hopping around on the path outside. Swallows sail through the air, and the cinnamon buns smell heavenly, together with the tea a smell of warmth and home.

Later, as they share a pipe in the armchairs at the window in the living room, they also share a few old memories. A few rays of sunshine fall through the window and for a moment, a flash of light above the mantelpiece makes both of them look up. Orcrist and Sting are mounted there, on the wall, another reminder of bygone times. Bilbo occasionally gives them a dusting, but that is the only time they take them down there.

Thorin wouldn’t have it any other way.

And he hasn’t lost his way again in Hobbiton for almost two years now.


End file.
